


Roses, Lotus, Violet and Iris

by Asami_T



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Badass lesbians, F/F, fwb to lovers, they start fucking pretty early on, two lesbians with drinking problems and emotional issues about their parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asami_T/pseuds/Asami_T
Summary: Iris celebrates her fortieth birthday with two bullets to the head. Too bad for her enemies-- she woke up.
Relationships: Courier/Rose of Sharon Cassidy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Roses, Lotus, Violet and Iris

In the Wasteland, seeing the dawn of your fortieth birthday was usually a time of celebration. Forty trips around the sun without meeting your grisly end in the tender care of a Deathclaw, on the dinner menu at a Raider camp, or getting your skull caved in by a dumb Mutie with too much time on his hands.

For Iris, it had been a very near thing. She’d promised herself some much needed vacation time once she’d completed the mysterious delivery she’d been tasked with by the strange robot in Sunnyvale. She’d agreed to the rather ludicrous amount of caps on the ticket, and had made her way east, passing through The Hub on her way down the Long 15 towards the bright neon-soaked streets of New Vegas.

Only to find herself bound, gagged, tied up and plunged into a shallow grave by a smug son of a bitch just outside the podunk-ass town of Goodsprings.

“Truth is, the game was rigged from the start,” this checkered suit wearing asshole had said, before blasting her with two bullets to the head. Who was the asshole that decided this greased up sleaze needed to talk in double-edged metaphors, _gambling_ metaphors at that? Was this asshole trying his best to live up to every NCR stereotype of the type of person that lived in the Mojave Wasteland?

When she’d awoken in the tender care of Doc Mitchell—the man’s concern that she’d be, and she quoted “nuttier than a bighorner dropping” had left her a little winded from laughing, but the good-natured doctor had simply warned her not to be reckless, and had provided her with his wife’s Vault suit and Pip-Boy, wryly indicating she’d not need it anymore, and to come back if she had any issues or injuries in the near future.

Stepping back out into the fray was the last thing Iris really wanted to do, but she knew it was a necessity—her little Courier job had turned into a blood-feud, she was going to find the motherfucker who plugged her, and plug him twice over.

She gave her new Pip-Boy a cursory glance and huffed.

Happy birthday to her—now, where in town could she get some liquor?

…

Iris sighed once again as she knelt in the dirt, the chintzy hunting rifle gripped in her hands. Her one weakness in this world was a pretty girl asking for her help. Sunny Smiles, one of the many locals, had asked after some help dealing with a small gecko infestation out by their water source. Too many locals had been killed or wounded by them to be left to their own devices, and with the threatening aura that poured off of that Joe Cobb asshole, Iris had a certain… predilection to assist their small town.

She remembered to make a note to ask Trudy about that joker– Powder Gangers looked to her to be no different than a Raider, merely more heavily armed as they took advantage of the inherent weakness of the NCR in the Mojave. She hated Raiders enough, Powder Gangers may as well just be an extension of that.

With another squeeze of the trigger, one of the more mature little vermin died gurgling on its own venom and blood.

“Great shot,” Sunny murmured. “I suppose you gained quite a bit of skill in your years as a Courier.”

“Yeah,” Iris said. “Though I’ve done far more than just be a Courier.”

“Oh?”

“Did a fare bit of merc work back West,” Iris said. “It’s either that or end up joining the slave guilds one way or another when you’re a vagrant on the streets back in the NCR. This guy named Slim was kind of like a father to me, but I ended up buryin’ him after some Raiders came and plugged him full of lead. I spent some time whorin’ myself out in New Reno, made enough caps to get back into the game, and joined up with the Mojave Express. Fair business, I suppose, but this is probably the most adventure I’ve had on the trail since the Divide went up.”

…

A few more hours of hunting geckos had led to the Goodsprings water source being free of vermin infestation– we’d also saved a young woman who’d gotten trapped near the wells and busted her ankle. A small wad of NCR money was pressed into my hands and Sunny said she’d help the woman back to town, and that I should make my way back if I wanted.

The call of the road– and revenge, was tempting. But something told me I should stick around, I still got bad vibes from that Powder Ganger hanging around.

After slogging my way back through the gritty night air to the Prospector’s Saloon, I counted out the money I’d gotten from the lady prospector and found I had just enough to pay for the vodka I’d chugged earlier, plus another shot. I’d have to sleep outside for the evening, but I figured it was worth a little pain in the back to get rid of the feelings in my head. While I was sitting at the bar feeling miserable on-the-whole, I eyed Trudy carefully.

“So what was with that asshole shouting in here earlier?”

“Oh, him? That’s Joe Cobb,” Trudy said bitterly. “He runs one of the local Powder Ganger groups and had come looking for this guy named Ringo. Ringo showed up to town a few days ago injured, and Doc Mitchell patched him up right as rain, and he’s been staying up in the abandoned Poseidon gas station at the top of the hill. Honestly, if I’d known he’d bring Cobb into town, I’d have just had him run out of town.”

I nodded carefully– honestly, I’ve seen too many trusting people sent to a shallow grave for the sheer crime of being caring folk.

“I s’pose I should go chat with him– hopefully we can keep this Cobb fellow from being too much of a menace,” I said with an irritated sigh. “G’night, Trudy.”

“Night– are you gonna be staying in town much?”

“A few days more, probably– but I ought to get back onto the trail. I’ve gotta find the guy who did this,” I said, gently touching the still gnarly, healed wounds on my head. I’d never be in the running for Miss Wasteland that was for sure. “But Doc Mitchell told me not to wander for a few days, just in case I’ve got some internal bleeding.”

“Have you got a place to sleep for the night?”

“I’m a courier, I’m used to layin’ in the dirt staring at the stars. Don’t you worry about me, Miss Trudy. I’ll be fine– I’ve got no money, I wouldn’t want to occupy any of your hospitality without paying my way.”

Trudy frowned. “Are you any good with mechanics? Being a courier and all,”

“Well, there were a few times when I was a kid I did scrap work back West, why?” I asked, curious.

“Joe busted up my radio,” Trudy said, gesturing to the half-busted antique. “If you can get it running, I’d mighty appreciate it.”

“Lemme go chat with Ringo first, and then I’ll take a look at your radio,” I said with a nod, before stepping out into the dusty night.

A wry glance at Easy Pete aside, I made my way up to towards the abandoned Poseidon gas station. Drawing the hunting rifle carefully, I nudged the door open with my foot and scanned the room carefully, coming to see a man with a pistol in his hand.

“Careful where you point that thing,” I said with a hiss. “Last mistake you’ll ever make.”

“Sorry,” The man muttered. “Thought you were one of Joe Cobb’s people,” He tucked his pistol back in his holster and looked up at me. “Ringo, Crimson Caravans.”

“So I’ve heard– got yourself into a lick of trouble and thought you’d hide behind a defenseless community?”

“No, nothing like that,” Ringo said, looking exhausted. “Well, maybe it’s a bit that– but I had nowhere to go, there’s nothing out here except deathclaws and sand. I’m actually trying to think of a way to get out of this without the people of Goodsprings getting hurt.”

“Can’t take him and his gang head-on? How many hands they’ve got?” I asked, eyebrow raised.

“Enough to where I’ll need help to take them out,” Ringo said with a sigh. “Cobb plus I think three or four others– but they’ve got dynamite, that’s the worst part.”

“Have you tried talking to the people of Goodsprings?”

“Sunny Smiles would probably join up– I can’t say much of anybody else,” Ringo admitted.

“I might be able to ask around for supplies and the like,” I said with a sigh. “Or at least organize some kind of final stand. It’s either that, or live under the jackboot of a bunch of prison escapees.”

…

My first stop was Doc Mitchell– the man was easy to convince to supply medical aid.

“Ringo and I are talking about coordinating a defense of Goodsprings against the Powder Gangers,” I said.

“Didn’t I just get done tellin’ ya to stay out of trouble?” Doc Mitchell said with a smile on his face. “I presume you’ll need medical supplies in case there’s casualties?”

“Some stimpaks and maybe some Med-X, but even then, I’m hoping we’ll get the jump on Cobb and the boys and be able to end it before it starts.”

“Say no more, I’m in,” Doc Mitchell said with a nod. “I’d join in as a gun, but I’m no good with that these days.”

“Nah, you’re fine, Doc– why send the medic into battle against a bunch of jerks with dynamite?”

Doc Mitchell gives a dry laugh. “You’re gonna need more than just stimpaks to beat ’em though.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m gonna head to the store to see if I can shake the owner down for some armor.”

“I doubt he’ll part with it easily, he’ll probably want some solid caps in exchange.”

I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I’ll think of something.”

Doc Mitchell had been completely right– Chet, another greasy asshole, was just as obstinate and unmoving about it as the prediction had foretold. The man had wanted a thousand caps to ‘justify’ parting with enough leather armor to equip the population of Goodsprings.

I felt a well of irritation in my stomach as I reached over the counter, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close. “In what world do you think Joe Cobb and his men are going to pay you a fuckin’ cap for your goods? You let this town fall because you’re such a fucking cheapskate to part with some leather armor, and you’ll end up either swallowing some bullets at the hands of Joe Cobb, or you’ll end up watching your shop burn to the ground. It’s up to you.”

Chet, stammering and looking affronted, swallowed and looked at me wryly. “Fine. I’ll give them the armor. But if-”

“Good, glad we could come to this arrangement,” I said with a roll of my eyes, interrupting the man’s starting rant. “Bye, Chet.”

After convincing Trudy to join in the fray, I had just about everyone I needed– Easy Pete being the exception. The old man had fastidiously refused to give up any of his dynamite for the great jamboree, but I had a feeling we wouldn’t quite need anything like that in the fracas.

When the time came, I found myself perched on the roof of the Prospector Saloon, rifle aimed down the only viable road into Goodsprings. As soon as the small group of Powder Gangers appeared, I let loose the first bullets, this one aimed at Joe Cobb’s smug-looking ass.

It grazed him, but I’d missed by a wide margin. Before the group could scatter, I fired off another round, hitting one of his cohorts– the man’s red baseball cap when flying as the viscera ejected from the rear of his skull.

Ah-ha, now the game was afoot.

The gunfight at Goodsprings lasted a few minutes, but I’d managed to get the kill shot on two of the five gangers, Trudy managing to take one out at the kneecaps (the wannabe Raider bled out), Sunny grabbing another, and Sunny’s dog managing to get Joe Cobb.

To the victor go the spoils, so to speak. I’d managed to get myself a rather nice looking hunting shotgun, along with some sticks of dynamite and some armor to go over my Vault suit. Trudy and Sunny split the rest of the loot and we made our way back to the saloon. As celebration for our victory, Ringo paid me half the caps left from his caravan job, with a promise of another half if I saw him at Crimson Caravan’s franchise location just outside the Strip.

Trudy gave me complimentary liquor (to a limit) and a place to sleep at night. I figured, why not, spend a few more days in Goodsprings before hitting the road.

…

With a few more rounds of rifle ammunition, plus my spoils-of-war shotgun, I set off on foot back into the dusty wasteland. I left before the sun had come up completely, giving me just enough time to make some distance before the Mojave’s typical dry heat made itself known– even in November, the days got warm. The trail from Goodsprings terminated at a road that ran north-south. The Pip-Boy map informed me I was just outside the pre-war establishment of _Jean Sky Diving_.

The sound of people congregating behind the building, as well as the warning from Trudy and Sunny about Powder Gangers setting up on the highway down to Primm _and_ up towards Sloan kept me on my toes.

Contrary to the belief of many people, I wasn’t exactly a blood-thirsty killer. If I could avoid getting into a scrape that would end with someone walking away in a body bag, I was all for it– though something told me that these Powder Gangers wouldn’t quite see it the same way should they catch on to my presence. So, I did my best to sneak into the building to search for anything good.

You see, that was somethin’ I learned from Slim. He’d always told me that sometimes the most rundown, useless fucking buildings in all of the Wasteland were often harboring treasure troves of shit worth looting. Of course, he always cautioned me, if you didn’t keep your wits about you, you’d end up full of buckshot or slugs and be lyin’ in a shallow grave before long.

The dingy, quiet building was almost _too_ still, and it kind of left me feeling slightly nauseous. There was very little of value in the building other than some caps on the table, along with a key to a locker that contained some odds and ends, mostly some pre-War money and a few shotgun shells.

…

After a little while of walking up the cragged, ruined highway, I came across the first place I needed to go– Primm. The central headquarters of the Mojave Express was here, and I wanted to see if there was any sort of indication as to _whom_ arranged for the package to be delivered, it might give me some inkling of an idea as to the motive for that sleazy suit motherfucker to fill me full of lead.

The presence of NCR at the approach to the town wasn’t surprising– the presence of Powder Gangers in the region wearing NCRCF outfits quite obviously indicated exactly how these wannabe Raiders had gotten their hands on dynamite and formed their own gang– the NCR was now dealing with yet another insurrection in a sand trap. Sighing to myself, I approached the checkpoint and found myself dealing with a grim-faced NCR officer.

“This area’s off-limits,” The fresh-faced trooper warned. “The whole town has been overrun by Powder Gangers.”

“Isn’t it kind of your job to contain those bastards?” I asked dryly. “No matter, I’m well-armed to deal with them.”

“You’ll have to talk to my CO,” The trooper said. “We’re not allowed to let anybody into Primm otherwise.”

I rubbed my eyes in annoyance. Some days I really did think about saying ‘fuck all’ and moving east into the Rockies. I’d heard that Denver was starting to recover from the raider attacks and the wild dogs were less of a problem in certain areas– or the prosperous farming communes out of the Wyoming forests. But here I was, in the ass-end of the NCR, dealing with their stupid fucking bureaucracy.

Again.

“Fine, just point me to where your fucking CO is,” I muttered.

“Lieutenant Hayes is in the tent at the end of this road,” The officer said, gesturing to the road leading towards Primm.

“Thanks,” I muttered as I moved past him.

…

Lt. Patrick Hayes, Fifth Battalion, First Company.

My first impressions of him was a guy who was miserable, living out a miserable tour of duty in a miserable part of the Wastes.

“Lieutenant, I just want to get into Primm. I have to speak to the guy in charge of the Mojave Express about a package I was contracted to carry,” I said. “I’m more than capable of handling the Powder Gangers. I just got done dealing with a band of them in Goodsprings to the north of here.”

“Goodsprings?” Hayes asked.

“Yeah, tiny mining town. You’ve apparently forgotten they exist.”

Hayes sighed. “Look, I’ll level with you, courier. I’ve got no reinforcements, and my standing orders are to somehow restore law and order to Primm. If you want to take a shot at taking out all these bastards, you’re welcome to it. I might even be able to scrounge up some caps for you if you can do it.”

“ _Might_ be able? Honey, the last time an NCR officer said he -might- be able to get me supplies or caps, I got snubbed. I’m afraid I don’t do NCR mercenary work on commission anymore. I’m going to need a deposit.”

“I don’t blame you– a lot of officers look down on mercenaries, something about a lack of honor. But if you ask me, we’d never have gotten out of being a two-bit settlement in the Wastes if it weren’t for mercs.”

“You’re telling me?” I asked, letting each word drawl.

“Tell you what– if you’ll accept NCR cash, I’ve got $200 with your name on it now, and then I can pay you in caps when you finish.”

“Lieutenant, that’s only 80 caps upfront. You’re going to need to sweeten the pot a bit.”

“Okay, fine– $300? I can’t give you any more, I’m saving up for when I go on leave to the Strip,” He said desperately, almost begging me not to bleed him dry.

I thought about it. “Okay, tell you what– keep your extra hundred. I’ll do it for 200 dollars NCR up front, plus 200 caps when the job is done.”

Hayes looked at me carefully before nodding. “Deal.”

We shook hands and Hayes sighed. “I’ll let the boys know you’re clear to pass through.”

“Thanks, Lou. Any plans once this is all buttoned up?” I asked.

“We’ll probably be shipped back to Camp Forlorn Hope– the only place in the Wasteland worse than rotting in the sun flanked on all sides by Powder Gangers.”

I let out a laugh and shook my head before standing up and making my way outside. Time to get busy, I guess.

…

Spending time in the seedy underbelly of the NCR had perks, I guess. You’d be surprised how many people living third-class lives, in the back alleys and half-way houses of the Republic were fallen Brotherhood of Steel and Enclave. It was a festering cyst under the skin of the republic, a permanent reminder that her vanquished enemies weren’t entirely vanquished. I’d learned my fair share of skills from folks like that– basic medic work, higher learning, or some useful skills like how to do proper reconnaissance.

The group of Powder Gangers occupying Primm were not much larger than Joe Cobb’s crew, but they were scattered over a larger area– I spied a couple shooting up Jet and Psycho near the old gas station, plus two more trying to bash in the door to the Vikki and Vance casino. However– there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be more people lingering around in some of these buildings. I managed to get close to the two guys trying to bash in the door to the casino, before I drew and loaded the shotgun I’d gotten off the first Ganger crew I’d encountered.

Firmly placing it against my shoulder, I grit my teeth and unloaded the first shot at one of them– the blond Ganger found his kneecap shredded into nothing as he fell onto the ground screaming in agony. I quickly reloaded as the first rifle shot embedded itself into the stone framework of the casino building. I loaded my shotgun again and blasted the second guy in the stomach. Neither one was dead– yet, if their pained moans were any indication. There wasn’t any other sound nearby, so I presume the other two dudes are so stoned out of their minds that they have no sense of reality– that was about right for someone taking Jet, I guess.

I checked the bodies of the deceased– again, nothing significant other than a few more sticks of dynamite and a couple rifle cartridges, plus about 30 bucks NCR, and a handful of caps. The door to the casino was still closed, and I could see the stress marks where rifles had been beaten against it, and a handful of holes. I knocked on the door.

“Someone call an exterminator to deal with a vermin problem?” I asked, half-amused.

There was some fumbling on the other side before the door opened, revealing a tired looking old man. “We ain’t got much time for jokes, stranger. You take care of them Powder Gangers?”

“Just the two trying to force their way through the door. There’s a couple junkies round the back, I’ll take care of ’em too. The whole town locked up in there with you?”

The old man nodded. “Name’s Johnson Nash– my wife Ruby and I do all the administrative work ’round these parts, except for law. We had a lawman, but them Powder Gangers must’ve gotten him, and then his useless ass deputy went charging into the Bison Steve and never came back out.”

“There’s gangers holed up there?” I said, jerking my thumb at the Bison Steve. Johnson nodded in confirmation.

“At least a half-dozen,” He said. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but why’re you in Primm anyway?”

“Was lookin’ for the man in charge of the Mojave Express,” I said. “Had some questions ’bout a package I was sent to deliver.”

“Well, you’re lookin’ at him,” Johnson said quietly. “Got your manifest?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve still got it somewhere,” I muttered. Not all of my belongings had been absconded with by the fucking grease ball, just anything of value, like my clothing and guns. I wonder if the shithead had Maria. If he did, I was going to feed him his teeth and then shove a shotgun shell through his eyeball.

I managed to find the crumpled and creased sheet of paper indicating the package manifesto. I handed it to Johnson who looked it over carefully before nodding.

“Yeah, I remember this one– some robot fellah came into the store and had me send out five packages on top of the one you were comin’ into town with. They were mostly odds and ends, but there was one– I guess the one you got saddled with, a platinum chip of some kind, was pretty important to some people.”

He shook his head. “When the first guy showed up to take his package, he got one look at your name on the roster and asked if you was for real. I said, sure as rain, you were still kicking around, and he got weird on me– refusing the package and all sorts of paranoid bullshit. Guess he was thinking maybe the Mojave would sort you out. He disappeared after that, hopefully the Divide skinned him alive.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Did he say any reason why I should be doing it?”

“Nah– he was just a real weird guy. Talked about going into the Divide a lot to make a mark on the old world. A lot of rambling bullshit, really,” Johnson said with a shrug.

“The guy at the Sunnyvale office was similarly confused what the big deal was with the big platinum chip, and told me that some robot fellah had been there too, looking suspicious like. Kinda weird, ain’t it?” I asked, before shaking my head.

“Hmm,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. Insanity wasn’t uncommon in all things in the Wasteland, it was merely an uncomfortable truth. “Look, Johnson– tell you what, you’ve been so helpful, I’ll take care of the last of these Gangers, that way Primm’ll be safe again.”

“We also need a new lawman,” Johnson contributed.

“What about your deputy?” I asked.

“If that son of a bitch is still alive, I’ll skin him myself– he’s a useless idjit,” Johnson spat venomously.

I almost wonder if I did find a living, breathing deputy, it’d just be easier to put a bullet through his head to spare him the inevitable death he’ll get at the hands of the townspeople. Once Johnson had closed the door to the casino again, I had to stop and get myself together. When did I become a fucking walking messiah? This was two towns I had to fix after they’d been put under the gauntlet.

“I’m going to need more booze,” I muttered to myself as I snuck around the side of the building, prepared to unload on the two Jet-addled gangers. They weren’t much of a challenge– one of them was left fumbling for his pistol while the other barely even noticed his impending demise. They too, had very little on their cooling corpses other than a few blood-soaked bills, some chems, and leftover ammunition.

My next step was to go look inside the small shack near the gas station to see if there was anybody alive in there. As soon as I’d cracked the door open, the stagnant sickly stench of death and decay hit my nose and I let out a retch. It seems the first thing the gangers had done as soon as they’d taken Primm was slaughter the sheriff in his bed, along with his wife.

And I use slaughter generously– it was more like butchering. They’d been tied up to their bed and then decapitated. I did find the sheriff’s coat and hat under the bed, along with his cowboy repeater plus a duplicate, presumably for spare parts, plus ammunition. Hefting the rifles in my arms, I made my way back to the Vikki and Vance, banging on the door a second time.

Johnson Nash poked his head out of the door. “You take care of them Gangers round the back?”

“Yeah, and I went and poked my head in on the sheriff’s office. Found him and the missus tied up and decapitated. He left behind a couple rifles, maybe they’d be of interest to y’all.”

“We can probably find a use for ’em,” Johnson said, sounding rather pleased.

“Good,” I said with a sniff. “I guess I’ll go see what I can do about these other bastards.”

…

Getting into the Bison Steve was _easy,_ it was getting through it that proved a tad difficult. Immediately as I stepped through the door, I took notice of one ganger standing in the dimly lit hallway, wearing rather bulky leather armor and a carrying a hunting shotgun. I thought about simply opening up on him, but the distance between us, plus his armor… bad odds.

I’d have to rely on stealth, then.

Bludgeoning a man over the head with something requires a bit of finesse and upper-arm strength. I’ve never been exactly blessed with rippling muscles to destroy my enemies with (much to my chagrin, many a lonely, inebriated night by campfires were spent fantasizing about just such a thing, with a whole harem of wasteland girls flocking to my side.)

Fortunately, this guy was already either so blitzed out of his mind, or the chunk of bookshelf was just enough of a blow to knock the man off his feet. I had a feeling in my stomach he wouldn’t be getting back up again, so I relieved him of the bottle of booze he’d been carrying in his hand– I checked his pockets and marveled in surprise. The asshole only had one shotgun shell in the chamber– they were having a guy with one shot defending this building from intruders?

Man, maybe there was an argument that people in the Wastes were as dumb as Muties sometimes.

Yanking the single shell from his shotgun, I tossed the useless rifle against the wall and tucked it away as I crept my way into the large foyer– I could hear the distinct sound and glow of a fire-barrel in the next room, no doubt one that would be full of people. There were several doors as well. I had to think about what I was going to do next very briefly, before reaching into my backpack and pulling out one of the dynamite I’d nicked from Cobb’s crew.

Well, what better way to give the Gangers a taste of their own medicine, than with a little… combustive therapy?

Digging my lighter out of my bra with a grimace– thankfully I still had at least _that_ , which was maybe the one redeeming quality of the sleazy bastard. His Great Khan buddies wanted to have their way with me before I was six feet under, and he’d been very insistent on not doing anything like that. I suppose I’d have to thank him while I was feeding him his fucking teeth.

I crept closer to the entrance to the room, grit my teeth, lit the fuse on the end of the stick of dynamite, and waited a few seconds for the fuse to cook down, before pitching it through the opening into the room. In a moment, the building shook from the percussive force of the explosion, and I grabbed my shotgun and quickly moved.

Fortunately– most of them were already dead. The bad news, is the last guy was carrying a flamethrower. I felt the blast of heat and ducked back, out of the way of being cooked to a nice crisp. Shooting a bit blind, I fired out from behind cover, grimacing as I heard the buckshot go wild.

“Is that all you’ve got?” came the mocking voice of the powder ganger.

“Not even close, jackass,” I called back, before loading another shell and firing into the room again. I heard the sound of the buckshot hitting something, and the wannabe-raider’s loud swearing.

I quickly loaded yet another shell and came into the room– the ganger’s flamethrower gas tank had ruptured from the buckshot I was firing, spilling his fuel out all over the floor. I wasted no time, and wasn’t cruel about it– I emptied a shot into his chest. The ganger’s eyes glazed over and he collapsed backwards, bleeding out on the floor of the hotel.

I sighed and looked to my left– I could see a blonde ‘pretty boy’ tied up in the kitchen, looking terrified, in fact, I distinctly noted a wet spot on the crotch of his pants. As I made my way over to him, I noticed– definitely urine. The man had pissed himself.

“You must be the Deputy,” I said coolly as I approached. “Seems you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“Oh, no,” the Deputy lied. “I’m just waiting until I have the right time to escape, you know, catch them off-guard.”

“Okay, go ahead– they’re all dead, so now is the perfect time,” I said with a grin.

He looked surprised and then struggled against his bindings some, before looking at me expectantly.

“You know, you’re quite a hassle for this little town,” I said wryly as I picked up the butcher’s knife sitting on the blacktop counter. “How’d you get the deputy’s job, cowpoke?”

“M-my sister, she’s the sheriff’s wife,” he stammered. “I’ve only been on the job these last two months.”

“And in those two months, you let your sister and her husband get murdered, and then let a bunch of convicts take over the town?”

I shook my head. “You’re lucky I don’t like killin’ much, otherwise you’d be joinin’ the rest of these bastards six-feet under. It remains to be seen that the rest of Primm don’t have you hung. I’m gonna cut you loose now, but if you run, I’m going to put you down like a dog, got me?”

“Crystal,” the Deputy whimpered as I sliced away the ropes binding him with the knife. He managed to stagger to his feet and seemed to bring back some of his confidence from where he’d been hiding it.

“I’m sure you’d like my help getting out of here,”

“I think I can find the door, dumbass,” I said. “I kinda killed all the assholes on this floor, we ain’t got anything to sweat.”

“Oh,” he said lamely. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, kid,” I said with exasperation. “Now, get movin’, and head to the Vikki and Vance. I’m sure ol’ Johnson’s got a dressin’ down to give you.”

The kid deputy tucked his tail between his legs and fled out of the building and I let out an annoyed sigh and rubbed the bridge of my nose. Shit like this was a big reason I’d gotten out of being a merc– the life of a courier was so much simpler. Take package from Location A, take it to Location B– get paid. Merc work involved so much bullshit it almost made my head spin.

I sighed again and dug around my bag for some liquid courage. I was getting too old for this shit.


End file.
